Pale Style, Mad Pills, and a Hammer

Pale Style, Mad Pills, and a Hammer

 

 

Everything goes from great to mad, like an episode of Breaking Bad

I think I caught a case of better face the facts

The pace at which I run is a race, but it's like I'm running in place

I just ate a plate of fate, but all I taste is hash

That’s weird, my wallet is empty, no cash

That’s what I get, I ask for some change and now it’s all I got in my pocket

I get angry and bash against the barricade, they told me to rock it

I take 3 pills, for each one of my 33 ills, the first 30 are wordy

The last 69 are overkill, my doc has got a quota to fill

Cruella De Ville in a lab coat, says he got a boat to build

He needs my bones for the frame, my skin for the sail

Now we're taking on water, get a bucket to bail

This is my SLAM style, never predicted or stale

You could be on a warm picnic and still get hit by hail

I died every week like Kenny till I slipped the grail

Now I'm feeling pretty healthy like a bowl of kale

And the pills try to kill me but to no avail

My rhymes are black as coal, yet my skin  remains pale

You’ve created your own coffin, I’m just the hammer and nail.